


Eagle Under the Moon

by Swurdleoma



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 19:39:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12711606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swurdleoma/pseuds/Swurdleoma
Summary: A soliloquy of Ezio Auditore da Firenze when he is in Florence, dedicated to Leonardo da Vinci.





	Eagle Under the Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [【刺客信条2，EL无差】月下鹰](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/338904) by 亚丽. 



> This work is an English translation of an originally Chinese work by me, on another platform.

When the day of the City ends, my day begins.

 

It’s almost impossible to have a moment of peace, though I rarely speak a word day after day.

 

The sun burns in me.

 

For me the world is always silent. All is silent when I walk in the streets. When I gaze from the roof. When I rest on the bench. When I fight the guards. The world is silent as dead when I have my blade plunged between their ribs and their blood on my hands.

 

But I never had a moment of peace.

 

The sun burns in me. The moon cools me down again. I could stay on top of the Cathedral all night for a slight touch of peace.  
Yet I never had one.

 

When I look out upon Florence, I wonder, “Could I say this is my city?”

 

My city?

 

Could it be my city?

 

No one has watched over her has carefully as I have. No one hates the vile as I do, or treasures the warmth as I did.

 

I love the City.

 

No one has ever terrorized her like I have.

 

They fear me.

 

When I climb up the balcony. When I cut the throat of a thief in the street. When I search for coins in the pocket of a dead body. When I wait by the corner for my prey to come nearer.

 

They curse me.

 

They run away from me with terrorized faces. They hate me.

 

They whisper my name as if chanting the name of a devil. They’re cursing me.

 

I hear everything but keep silent.

 

Yet I never had a moment of peace.

 

Day by day I chase the thieves, hire the thieves, blend into whores, climb up the church, dive from the tower, and wait.

 

I throw money to the beggar.

 

I cut throats in the market.

 

It’s a tough life living on blood. Much tougher than the tailor or black smith.

 

Sometimes my doctor fears me.

 

I throw money to the musicians.

 

My hands are never stained with blood of my people. Families I destroyed are innumerable.

 

I follow the eagle for its feathers.

 

I watch doves.

 

I become less and less sensitive.

 

I walk with the birds.

 

I hang on for another day, another hour, to revenge.

 

And to see you.

 

To find the scrolls I need, but for you.

 

To decode and to decipher. To knock at that shiny door. To escape, desperately from death. To survive by running myself dead.

 

To think about the moment of peace in your room.

 

I think of you whenever I exhaust myself with life and drain myself for death.

 

I stay on the roof across the street and gaze on your door, when I’m not permitted to enter.

 

I almost threw the body of an archer to the street as usual, but gave up at last. It was in front of your door.

 

When my doctor, that kind old man, hides his face in his hands, quivering and avoiding me. When my sister, who cannot forgive me for failing to provide her with a normal, irritably pretends that I do not exist. When I walk out of my mother’s dead room. It feels that I am the only creature breathing inside this icy house, but I never had a moment of peace.

 

When I alone wander on a horse outside the wall of Monteriggioni, looking for the last feather under the moon.

 

I feel like tears bursting out.

 

I think of you.

 

The only shining point over this earth of darkness.

 

A name that I repeat silently without even knowing.

 

Leonardo.

 

Leonardo.

 

....

 

The daybreak is near. Roofs of Florence are covered in a soft light. The gauze-like clouds have cleared. The newly found scroll lies in my arms, silently, shining like the treasures. 

It’s time to see you. To climbing over roof after roof, fleeing to that little letter marked on my map. To see you turning from your work to me, tenderness in your eyes, as if ready to comfort a homeless kid. And to hear the only call that breaks the deadly silence:

 

“Ezio? So good to see you!”

 

So good to see you.


End file.
